He plays at the leash-end
Whilst "culture" grinds the crank
He plays with ottava rima strains
When the muses raise his rank
Octaves he knows many more
Than scan within an inch
Of monkey sandman's drizzle laughter
Imagine how must he itch
To tell off the offices
And the clerks who make a crouch
In bowling to their engines
In plain rooms boldly numbered
See how in a drop of day
They've lost time that so encumbered
Now so free the mortal strain
(As seen on TV, never mind the color
It's all black and white, all problems
Solved in half an hour
Audio then visual)
Ecce sweet refrain:
The sinecure's been sequestered!
Hurrah! Huzzah! Hoobaloo!
Thus all meek before the melting mob
And the center stays smartly centered
Beneath the gaze of micromanager
Whose hurdy gurdy gently groans:
"Dot your 'i' and cross your 't'
Review the 'p' and 'q' and
And . . . presto!"
So drop the idiom, drop the drone
Your song is nearly done
As for your predominance
Preeminent, tall, and novel,
All blue-jeaned and professorial
Well, something's much less, it surrounds:
Have you seen the flatness of the terrain?